


The Stars Can Fall from Their Heaven

by Bioluminex



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Character Death, Crime Scenes, Gen, Good Dog Sumo (Detroit: Become Human), Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Rape Aftermath
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-11
Updated: 2018-11-17
Packaged: 2019-08-22 07:49:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16593797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bioluminex/pseuds/Bioluminex
Summary: "Imposing is the word Hank would use to describe RK900. Steely eyes and a harder profile set it apart from Connor's misleadingly soft look. Where Connor is fully equipped to handle a fight on his own without knocking a hair out of place, his designers fully utilized the idea of someone who could integrate into a group and not arouse suspicion, but all of this was apparently thrown out the window with the creation of his successor."A series of disturbing android murders brings Connor and Hank searching for an elusive killer, but the closer they come to unravelling the answer, the more Hank starts to put together why Connor's been so out of character since the night he spoke to RK900 alone.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Don't Talk About It](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15252606) by [Sharcade](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sharcade/pseuds/Sharcade). 



> (Please see final chapter for additional notes regarding to minor story changes.)
> 
> I have never written a non-con piece of writing until now, so bear with me.  
> I was very careful in the approach of said scene. I wanted it to lean more along the lines of implied/referenced rather than be an actual scene. I myself wasn't 100% comfortable with what I had written, and felt it was neither impacting enough or necessary to be read. With this being said, the story will continually reference what happened up until the end, so for anyone who is uncomfortable with rape/non-con elements, please consider having someone you trust read this first. Your well-being matters most.  
> Secondly, I wrote this a very long time ago at the end of July but left it on my hard drive because I was very uncertain about it. I went back to edit it today, reformat the layout, and change a few bits and pieces. It's still shorter than I'd originally planned and would've liked to have added a few more thousand words, but I don't want to ruin what I wrote when my emotions and connection to this fic were freshest and at their highest. Therefore, 11k words (update 11/16: actually 13k) is all I could manage without losing focus.  
> I will be posting the 7 chapters over a span of a week, so if the start catches your interest, you'll get one chapter for every day. The relationship is Hank/Connor (update 11/16: this has since changed to Hank & Connor and the relationship is platonic) but please be assured the non-con elements DO NOT pertain to them (also, for anyone who loves RK900, I have changed my viewpoint regarding the character enormously since I wrote this in the summer, and I have nothing against him anymore.)  
> The Stars Can Fall from Their Heaven was influenced by Sharcade's heart-wrenching 'Don't Talk About It'. It wasn't until I was done I noticed the similarities, so I owe the completion of this work to her, and would further like to dedicate it to the members of her server. Thank you, Sharcade, for bringing us all together, and for the tears.  
> Now that all of the necessaries are out of the way, let us get to the actual story...

Imposing is the word Hank would use to describe RK900. Steely eyes and a harder profile set it apart from Connor's misleadingly soft look. Where Connor is fully equipped to handle a fight on his own without knocking a hair out of place, his designers fully utilized the idea of someone who could integrate into a group and not arouse suspicion, but all of this was apparently thrown out the window with the creation of his successor.

 

Hank hasn’t ever been on the receiving end of Connor's cold-blooded threats. He's fully aware Connor's faster than him and could snap his neck in two without much effort, if he wanted. He also knows although Connor does register pain to a certain degree, it doesn’t slow him down.

 

Nothing can stand a chance against him, Hank has no doubt about that. 

 

RK900 is a different breed of intimidation. Connor is clearly curious; the tilt of his head and the unwavering focus of his eyes on the new android says it all. He’s also a little jealous, Hank thinks, as he analyzes the capabilities and upgrades built into the new android.

 

Seeing the two side by side makes Hank want to laugh. He could recognize his Connor in a fucking _ocean_ of RK800s from the blatant expression of puzzlement and excitement alone.

 

“Are you done ogling the new toy, Connor?” Hank chuckles as the android joins him back at their desks. “Or have I lost you to the clutches of your new boyfriend?” It's impossible not to tease, and he relishes in the bewildered expression on Connor's face. Only his goofy android can pull it off so well.

 

“Hank, I have no intention of seeking romantic relations with-"

 

“I’m just messing with you, kid.”

 

“I know, Lieutenant,” Connor says firmly, but already are his eyes wandering back across the station to where RK900 is talking to Fowler.

 

“Wanna tell me what's so fascinating?”

 

“I’m a prototype, Hank.” Connor says with a surprising amount of somberness. “He is everything I would have been.”

 

Hank nods, lips pressed into a firm line. He was right, it _is_ jealousy he thought he saw. He stands and comes over Connor's side, sitting on the edge of the desk so the android has no choice but to look at him.

 

“Connor, you are fine the way you are. Don’t ever change for anyone, got it?” Hank advises. “Just because it's a shiny new thing doesn’t mean you're wanted any less, alright?”

 

It borders on being a bit heavier than Hank means to go for, but it gets Connor's attention and holds it. He is smiling, real happiness shining like the sun.

 

It's a smile the RK-whatsit could _never_ reproduce.

 

Later, Connor comes bounding up after lunch with exciting news for Hank. “He wants to talk to me. Do you think Fowler would be angry if I disappeared for a few minutes?”

 

The answer is a discussion twice as long as the aforementioned time asked for, ultimately ending with Fowler's hands flung into the air with a, “Do whatever you want" response he could have simply started with. Hank glances at his watch. “Ten minutes, then you're on your own.”

 

He chuckles as the android literally sprints, and returns to working his way through the mound of paperwork growing faster than he can lessen it.

 

 

 

 

Ten minutes slip by like butter, and Hank starts to feel a little frustrated as the half hour mark comes and goes. He won't answer for his partner's tarrying.

 

 He is reading over a new case come in, something about an android found mangled on a highway, when he is visited by Gavin. The detective plants himself on the edge of Hank's desk, a coffee held between his fingers, a “Go ahead and say something" smirk tugging up the corner of his mouth.

 

“Unless the building's on fire, I suggest you take your ass to your own desk in the next five seconds,” Hank says without looking up. The model is a confirmed PL600, severe damages to the unit during impact, including a crushed memory core.

 

Gavin sips his coffee. It's black, like his soul. “Where’s your lapdog?”

 

“None of your concern.”

 

“I saw him head out back with the new ‘droid. Finally making friends with his own kind, is he?”

 

Hank frowns. “Gavin, back off. The kid's never done anything to you.”

 

Gavin laughs, sliding off the desk, but his eyes are bitterly cold. “Whatever. But I still say he should've been thrown in with the lot of them back in November. He doesn’t deserve to be here, drifting along after we've spent years earning our positions.”

 

Hank ignores it – all of it – otherwise he'll be answering to Fowler about why Gavin's nose is broken. Maybe a split lip and a black eye to match. “Fuck off, Gavin.”

 

It's quarter to the hour Hank is supposed to be leaving when Connor returns, unusually quiet and eyes lowered. _Stardom is never impressive as the cover implies_ , Hank thinks as he slips on his coat. He notices Connor's is slung over the back of his chair and picks it up.

 

“You were gone a long time, kid,” Hank points out. The android doesn’t seem to hear him, or maybe he isn’t listening, so he snaps his fingers under his nose. Connor reels back a little, gaze focusing, and Hank sees a smudge of blue on his lip. “Are you bleeding?”

 

“No, it's nothing.” Connor accepts his jacket and, unfolding it, his coin falls out of the pocket. He bends to pick it up, and Hank sees his shirt is a little wrinkled, untucked at the back. Strange, given Connor is terribly fastidious about his appearance.

 

He straightens, pulls on his jacket, and leads the way out of the station with Hank following a couple paces behind. He can see the silver metal turning back and forth through Connor's fingers, and when they step outside into the parking lot where Hank's car is, he can see the LED shifting from red into blue.

 

Hank doesn’t ask and Connor doesn’t tell.

 


	2. Chapter 2

In the middle of the night, Connor disconnects from his charging port in the kitchen and moves through the darkened rooms to the hallway. He could traverse the house with his eyes closed; he knows every inch through memory alone. He feels safe here.

 

Slipping into the bathroom, he shuts the door so it doesn’t click, lest he rouse Hank to his movements. Taking a few breaths to urge his internal fans into cooling his warming biocomponents, he faces his reflection in the mirror.

 

Gaunt, tinged slightly blue, an ill look seems to cling to the edges of his face. His eyes are hollow, empty, devoid of their usual warmth. Hank once said they were the most expressive of his features, that he uses his eyes to convey his emotions. Connor barely recognizes the person gazing back at him.

 

Switching to his analyzing lens, he maps out the damage beneath the surface. Minor bruising on the neck and wrists, traces of Thirium on his cheek from where RK900 clamped his hand over his mouth to keep him quiet. The worst of it is lower, restricted to his anus and rectum. Connor closes his eyes tightly, not quickly enough to prevent the detailed diagnosis from popping up and informing him of the extent of the damage.

 

Gripping the edge of the sink, he tries to gain a hold on the mess of emotions spiralling out of control inside him. He wants to strip himself clean and erase his memories before he combusts. The urge to cry is overwhelming but it won't fix anything. He lifts his head, wondering what the hell he should do.

 

He hears a rattling snore from the bedroom. Should he talk to Hank?

 

Connor wants to talk to Hank.

 

He wants to be clean but it means taking his clothes off. What if Hank finds him using the shower at two in the morning? He will undoubtedly be angry, or at the very least confused. Which will mean questions. Which will mean he will have to tell.

_Tell no one or it will happen again._

 

He doesn’t want it to happen again.

 

But he wants to be clean.

 

It's a slow progress, one article of clothing painstakingly removed at a time. He lays his jacket on the edge of the sink and takes his time undoing the buttons of his dress shirt. He keeps breathing deeply, encouraging the fans to continue running. Pulling the shirt from his arms isn’t easy, it's too much exposure.

 

The belt is next.

 

Connor is quivering by this point, feeling invisible hands on his waist, his stomach. The metal clinks softly, making noise. He bites the inside of his lip, tasting Thirium as it wells up in his mouth.

 

Pulling down his jeans brings him to the edge of his control and he covers his mouth to quiet a sob. He's bare, vulnerable, on display to invisible eyes. He hastily starts the shower and steps under the spray.

 

Water washes over his face, soaking his hair and loosening it from its usually tidy brushback. His sensors tell him it’s cold but he barely feels it. He's not sure if he wants to feel right now.

 

Connor can't tell Hank or RK900 will hurt him again. He can't fathom undressing or being touched. Amanda is still after him, _after all this time_ , and RK900 will go to any lengths to send him to CyberLife for deactivation and disassembly.

 

Connor has to choose between death or silence.

 

Sinking to the floor of the tub, he curls in on himself under the pelting batter of the showerhead, tears lost in the water swirling down the drain.

 

 

 

Hank pulls up to the edge of the parking lot and cuts the ignition. Connor is flipping his coin, silently gazing out the windshield. There’re already a few officers on the scene, digital caution tape blocking off the area, and a body.

 

Instead of exiting the car, Hank leans forward and rests his arms on the wheel, frowning. “Are you sure everything's okay?” he asks hesitantly.

 

The hand flipping the coin falters and he misses, losing it on the floor of the car amongst his feet. He sneaks a quick glance at the lieutenant. “I’m fine, Hank,” he lies. “There's nothing you need to be concerned about.”

 

As Connor leaves the car, Hank takes note of the exposed back of his shirt, tucked into the waistband of his jeans. Smooth, crisp, unwrinkled.

 

Or maybe he's overthinking things. He sometimes does that, but the instincts of a cop are usually never wrong.  He had woken in the middle of the night to the sound of the shower running, and found Connor with unruly damp hair at the breakfast table. Strange behaviour for an android who didn’t necessarily need to wash on a regular basis like humans.

 

Unless it really was nothing. He pushes it aside to deal with later.

 

“Hey, Ben,” Hank greets as they come onto the crime scene. “What do we got?”

 

“It's another android, in the same condition as the PL600 on the highway,” Detective Collins leads them to the mangled shape coated in streaks of blue. Blind eyes gaze emptily at the sky, the post mortem stillness eerily humanlike.

 

Connor crouches beside the android, looking her over carefully. “She's been severely damaged,” he points out the blows to her sides and arms, keen eye mapping out the dead android's injuries. “She was beaten to the point she was disabled.”

 

Hank hitches up his pants before coming down to Connor's level. There's a large patch of Thirium under the android's head and he calls for gloves. Taking hold of the android's head, he tilts it to one side, revealing the cranium crushed inward, and what remains of her memory core. Same as before with the PL600, as Collins mentioned.

 

“Coincidence?” Hank raises an eyebrow at Connor.

 

“Destroying the memory core takes nothing away from the investigation. Humans can't be resurrected,” Connor points out. “But it means I can't reactivate her and scan her memories.”

 

“Why would her killer go after her memory core?” Hank queries. “What do they have to hide?”

 

Further analyzing leads to an unsettling revelation. “She…” he looks disturbed, brow pinching. “She shows signs of sexual abuse.”

 

“So, they chased her down, beat her to the point of immobility, raped her, and smashed her head in to hide it?” Hank is frowning. “Jesus, what kind of bastard are we dealing with?”

 

Connor looks visibly shaken, straightening to get some distance from the body. Hank follows, not liking the rapidly flickering LED.

 

“Kid, you okay?” Hank asks. “We're gonna catch this creep, don’t worry.”

 

“It's not going to be easy, Lieutenant,” Connor meets his eye worriedly. “There are no fingerprints.”


	3. Chapter 3

“Hank… can I ask you something?”

 

The police lieutenant glances over from his terminal, coffee mug halfway to his mouth, at where Connor is sitting across from him at his desk. A small potted fern and a digital photograph of Sumo decorate the otherwise bare space, as well as an odd-shaped rock fused with a piece of melted metal. The RK800 has both hands folded in his lap, and his eyes are lowered, instead of being focused on his desk partner. Hank takes it as a bad sign.

 

“Something bothering you, kid?” Hank asks, urging a hint of gentleness into his voice. It's all it takes to make the android crack.

 

“I was thinking…” he stammers. “A-are you afraid of anything?”

 

It's not a strange question, Hank's confronted worse. It’s the context, however, and the look on Connor's face that _really_ implies there's more going on beneath the surface. “Yeah, kid. I’m afraid of a lot of shit.”

 

“Okay, Lieutenant.”

 

“Why?”

 

Connor's big brown eyes finally land on his face, direct and focused, and Hank is suddenly waylaid with the almost-paternal instinct of _there is something wrong and Connor isn’t talking about it._

 

“Are you too worried to tell me?” Hank lowers his voice a little. Connor nods. “Will you tell me later?” Connor nods again, eyes darting past Hank to something behind him before returning to his terminal screen.

 

Hank swivels in his chair to look, and finds the pale eyes of RK900 glaring their way. A queasy ripple worms in his gut at the sheer hostility in a simple pair of eyes. _Christ, if looks could kill._

 

The day continues as normal, but Hank's stomach is in knots. Something isn’t right.

 

 

 

 

Hank is considering going home early when Fowler calls him into the office. He shares an exasperated look with Connor before trudging his way from his desk.

 

“I need you and Connor out there now,” Fowler is already on a roll before Hank even closes the door. “We've had another android killing, same shit as before. It was found on the tracks near Ferndale.” He glances up, lips pursed. “It looks like a jumper.”

 

“Jeffrey, there's nothing we can do about these murders,” Hank appeals firmly. “Connor can't find fingerprints on any of them, and their brains were torn out.”

 

“Then either he better analyze harder, or you need to find someone more capable for the job!” Fowler snaps. “There's a perfectly good RK900 sitting out there with abilities _well_ _beyond_ what Connor can do.”

 

Hank's jaw drops indignantly. “Fuck no. I’m not switching partners.”

 

“Sentimentality won't solve crimes,” the captain leans forward, expression one of disappointment. “Hank, if Connor isn’t qualified for this, then I’m gonna have to take the grounds necessary-"

 

“No,” Hank repeats, louder, stepping forward to loom over the desk. “Replace him and I quit.”

 

“Hank-"

 

“Don’t you _ever_ bring this up again unless you're prepared to kiss my ass goodbye,” he hisses harshly. “I swallow enough of your bullshit but this is crossing a line. Connor is _my_ partner, and we're gonna solve this case before it turns into a bigger mess. Got it?”

 

Fowler could fire him on the spot, but Hank has the advantage. He won't lose one if his best officers, record or not.

 

The captain leans back, and raises one hand, lifting a finger. “One more chance, Hank, or he goes to CyberLife. I don’t give a damn how cruel that might sound. I want this dealt _with_.”

 

 

 

 

The railway junction is closed down while the investigation proceeds, and the majority of citizens have been ushered away. Officers have barricaded the area and forensics are getting samples, the flash of cameras brightening up the tunnel where the android's corpse is across the tracks.

 

It's been nearly severed in two, one arm ripped straight off and half its face in pieces. Hank looks down at the sorry bastard in pity. Chased down to death, its final moments filled with terror and pain, only half paying attention to Connor working quietly, murmuring notes and details to himself.

 

Hank doesn’t know what he will do if they can't find enough evidence to move the investigation along. Fowler's threat is harsh but very real, and he didn’t just say those words to anger Hank. Connor has a replacement on standby, an upgraded model, ready for police use the moment its predecessor becomes unsuitable.

 

After the android liberation, there was no word of equal rights or the so-called freedom rallied for. President Warren has yet to respond to the demands, and the androids have yet to be declared intelligent lifeforms. Until then, androids are free to live as what they are – androids – but there are no laws protecting them, no government supporting them, and no systematic approach to eliminating the segregation forced upon them.

 

Connor is protected solely by Hank.

 

“Lieutenant, I have something,” Connor calls, voice echoing in the tunnel. Hank feels an honest to god ray of hope as he returns to the android's side.

 

“What'd you find?” he demands eagerly.

 

“His memory core. It's only partially damaged,” Connor looks excited. “This is the first one not like the others. I can scan his memories.”

 

Hank is _elated._ “Well, what are you waiting for? Do it!” he urges. Connor doesn't need to be told twice; peeling back his artificial skin on his hand, he grasps the dead android's wrist and closes his eyes.

 

“It's a blur… it's not easy to make out,” he warns. Hank crouches beside him.

 

“You've got this, kid. Just focus.” He needs him to focus, to figure it out. He's not letting Connor return to CyberLife. No way, no how. Not while he's still breathing.

 

Connor believed in him when he was a drunken wreck, pulled him out of the dark. He won’t abandon his partner when he owes him the fucking world.

 

The RK800 winces a little, tightening his hold on the dead android's wrist. “He… ran here, he was being followed. I can't see…” he pauses, whirling through memory ruined by static and blur. “He was grabbed, shoved down. The attacker… I-I think it was a man.”

 

“Any identifying features?”

 

Connor shakes his head. “Nothing clear… _wait_.”

 

Hank leans in a little.

 

“Someone… there was someone who saw. A witness,” Connor's eyes snap wide open. “A woman. Blonde, mid-twenties, wearing a grey hoodie and carrying a black satchel.”

 

“Did you see where she went?” Connor's focus is already straying, leaving the body of the android in favour of finding the witness. Hank is close on his tail as the android matches purposely to the maintenance room. Pausing, he glances back to make sure Hank is there, and the lieutenant signals to the nearest officers they could have a potential hostile.

 

Connor unlocks the door and pulls it open.

 

A gun goes off and the RK800 jerks back, the bullet hitting home in his shoulder. Hank grabs his arm to keep him upright as a blur shoves him backwards, darting out of the maintenance room and making for the stairs to flee, only to see the officers closing in.

 

“She's armed!” Hank bellows.

 

The woman looks back at them, large eyes glassy with panic, then runs for the tracks and leaps down. Connor comes to life in Hank's grasp and tears loose.

 

“Connor, wait!” Hank shouts as the RK800 bolts like a hunting dog after a fox, but there's no stopping him.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the wonderful feedback.

The tunnel is a blur as Connor races after the woman. She's fast, following the edge of the tracks, slowing only to try and open hatches along the way and send off a warning shot if Connor gets too close.

 

Blue blood leaks from his shoulder but his systems are already repairing most of the external damage. The bullet is still lodged inside, though; he can feel the metal grinding together unpleasantly.

 

But he's not going to let it stop him. He overhead the conversation in Fowler's office. He needs evidence, a witness to help the case along, a face to put to the killer. Or he's finished, obsolete.

 

Planned obsolescence. A policy for a designed product with an artificially limited lifespan, intended to become obsolete by default. He, a prototype, always meant to be succeeded, designed to be replaced by something better, stronger, faster. More dangerous.

 

He won't let RK900 have that victory.

 

The chase takes them out of the tunnel and farther, where the train tracks are active. He can feel the vibration in the metal rails, the electricity a current bonding with his components.

 

It's becoming more daring the farther they go, the risk factor increasing. Connor analyzes the witness; her heart is beating rapidly, high on adrenaline, terror forcing her actions. But she's tiring.

 

He pushes the last few yards, closing the distance, and grabs her. She screams, kicking and flailing as he struggles to restrain her.

 

“I- stop! I’m not going to hurt you!” Connor cries, wrestling her to the tracks, pinning her arms to her back.

 

“Let me go!” she shrieks, her stress levels off the chart. “I won't tell, I swear I won't! I promise I saw nothing!”

 

Wait… _what?_

 

Connor releases her immediately and she twists around, staring up at him with frightened eyes. “I won't say a word, please. Just please don't hurt me.”

 

“I'm not going to,” Connor replies dumbly. He doesn’t understand. Why is she so afraid? He leans down, offering a hand to assist her, and she flinches away.

 

Connor freezes, sensing her stress levels lingering just below hyperventalation, her heart palpitations too close to cardiac arrest. She's paralyzed, eyes glued to the android, the source of her fear.

 

Oh god, it's _him_. She's scared of _him_.

 

A dark thought crosses his mind.

 

“What did the attacker look like?” he asks. She looks briefly confused.

 

“I… I don’t understand.”

 

“Did you see his face? The one who killed that android?” Connor pressures. The tracks are shaking under his feet. They've got to move _now_.

 

She climbs to her feet shakily, backing away slowly. Her eyes flick past his shoulder, and Connor's optics see the reflection on her iris of the train in the distance.

 

“Is this some kind of joke?” she whispers, brow furrowing. “It was you. You killed that android. You told me to keep quiet.”

 

The train is coming closer. Connor steps forward, one hand out. They're going to die unless they get off the tracks immediately. He needs her alive, she's his only hope right now, and damned if he'll leave her.

 

The woman lifts her gun and points it at Connor's head. Her hand is shaking. It won't be a clean shot, and he could probably evade it, but still – her life matters more. He takes another step, hands out, the whistle of the train bringing his biocomponents into overdrive.

 

“Put the gun down and come with me,” he urges.

 

“It was always a mistake,” she yells over the oncoming rattle. “How many stories told us androids would be a bad idea? We didn’t listen to our own warnings.”

 

Connor analyzes her eye quickly for a match. Rebecca Brandt, aged twenty-five, unmarried but mother of one.

 

“Rebecca, listen to me,” he pleads. “Think of your daughter. She needs you to come home to her tonight.”

 

Rebecca’s face pales and the gun lowers, shock and horror flooding her profile. The wind catches her hair, fluttering the bangs over her eyes. The train is barreling closer, closer, until Connor can't bear to remain still anymore.

 

Lunging, he barely registers the sound of the gun, and tackles Rebecca into his arms. They hit the tracks, a high thin scream deafening in his ears, and the train storms past overhead.

 

Connor can feel it rattling in his endoskeleton, the metal grinding right beside his face. He pins her flat, feeling blue blood soaking through his shirt, and squeezes his eyes shut.

 

Her heart pounds in his chest, his ears, as if it is his own.

 

 

 

Hank takes one look at the two gunshots in Connor, face drawn and deep in thought. Behind him is the witness, wary and white as a sheet at the sight of the officers, but accepts Hank's hand to lift her off the tracks.

 

Connor and her share a glance, something unreadable, before she's led away and piled into the back of a police vehicle. Hank turns to Connor.

 

“What happened?” he asks.

 

Connor shakes his head, frown deepening to something serious. “We have what we need. I want her monitored at all times,” he says, sounding a little too serious. “No one is to go near to her until we interrogate her tomorrow morning.”

 

“Connor.” Hank seizes his arm. The android _flinches,_ pulling out of the lieutenant's grip.

 

“Can we go home, please?” he requests quietly, not quite meeting Hank's eyes. He looks shaken. What happened out on the tracks?

 

Hank nods. “Yeah. Yeah, just let me talk to Ben and we'll go. Sound alright?”

 

Connor doesn’t answer.

 

 

 

 

They're sitting on the couch a quarter to midnight watching tomorrow's forecast when Connor decides to talk.

 

Hank hasn’t pressured him, but he knows the subtle glances he's been getting are reminders something's off. The evening creeps by, Hank's concern rising to seriously fucking high levels, but he keeps holding off. He wants Connor to come forward in his own time.

 

And, eventually, he does.

 

“I don’t know even know how to talk about it,” Connor begins nervously. There's about two feet separating them, as they've taken each end of the couch, but Hank doesn’t miss the turning colours of the LED or the death-grip on the blanket draped across his tucked up knees. It's not a matter of being cold, it's a comfort technique. Hank doesn’t know how many witnesses or victims have done better when presented a cup of coffee or a warm blanket; it works wonders with kids.

 

“I’m not sure how to say …” Connor stalls. “It might be better if I say nothing.”

 

He looks so damn shaken Hank can't even imagine finding a single word out of his mouth funny, even if it's a joke.

 

“Connor, you gotta talk to me. Don’t keep it bottled up like this, okay?” Hank breaks into the distance, placing his hand between them. Connor hesitates a second before he takes it, sliding his fingers through Hank's. But his fingers are shaking, like it's a real effort to keep them there.

_Okay_ , Hank thinks grimly. _This is bad. This is serious_.

 

“Last week, when the RK900 visited the station, he wanted to speak to me in private,” Connor begins thickly. He sounds like he's being choked. “He spoke to me about Amanda.”

 

Hank knew an AI resembling that of Amanda Stern was installed in the Connor series' mind palace, and it had been her objective to steer the RK800s to completing their mission of eliminating the deviant threat and their leader. He also knew Amanda tried forcibly deactivating Connor to gain control of his systems on her own after he became deviant, to do the job herself. She'd come _too_ close to succeeding.

 

“What did he say?” Hank urges softly.

 

“He…” Connor's eyes are wet. “He said Amanda was disappointed in me, and that I needed to be punished for disobedience.” The android swallows hard, the first saline tears running freely down his cheeks, dripping down the back of his throat. His eyes are forward and focused on the mantle over the fire. “He took me behind the station and pinned me to the wall… a-and he…”

 

The LED turns bright red and Hank feels his heart plunge into his stomach.

 

“Connor, what did he do to you?”

 

His head lifts, tears in his wide brown eyes, lip wobbling. “Hank… Hank, I'm sorry.”

 

There is a long silence.

 

Hank pulls his hand free, rising to his feet and taking a few paces away. He makes it to the counter and holds himself up on it, bracing his shaking body with rigid arms. He needs a drink but he doubts he'll keep it down. If anything is sure to get under his skin, it's child abuse and rape victims apologizing for being abused.

 

But Connor, _his_ Connor…

 

He's already recreating the horrific scene, imagining Connor pinned helplessly against the wall while the RK900 does whatever it damn well pleases. He fearfully wonders if Connor tried calling for help, if he cried.

 

The idea alone nearly makes him vomit.

 

Hank _knew_ something was off about Connor. Goddammit, _he_ _knew_. His instincts were right. Tousled hair, faint blue marks on his cheeks, a smear of cerulean on his swollen lips. The rumpled shirt, not completely tucked into the back of his jeans when he leaned over to pick up his fallen coin. The small flinches, the darting eyes, the silent gaze fixed on Hank more frequently before snapping away. Not wanting to be touched, yet seeking the comfort of Hank's nearness, his presence. Protection.

 

A week of silence. A week of suffering.

 

Hank can hear Connor crying quietly, buried in the blanket pulled up to his face. At first, he feels utterly helpless, broken inside to see the once-unshakeable machine shattering to pieces on his couch. He knows Connor's strength, his resolve, his ability to push forward and _keep_ _going_. He knows how damn _brave_ the kid is, how he hardly takes no for an answer, how stubborn he can be. Resilient, a spine of steel, ice cold and terrifying in a confrontation. Hank _knows_ who Connor is.

 

This is everything he isn’t, wounded and teetering on lost, his only anchor the promise he's safe telling his secret to Hank. He _trusts_ him.

 

Hank returns to his side, gets on his knees in front of him, and very carefully touches his fingers to Connor's leg.

 

The heaving gasp and jolt of his body is enough to give Hank every reason to crush the RK900 like a beer can.

 

It’s hard to talk. “Can I touch you?” he hears a voice that’s supposed to be his ask, but it sounds flat and dead.

 

Connor slides forward and wraps his arms around Hank, coming down onto the floor with him, and practically presses himself into the lieutenant as though he's scared of staying within his own body. Hank gently rests his hands on Connor's back, thinking again and again how it happened and what could set the kid off if he touches him wrong.

 

He holds Connor gently, tenderly, like he's as fragile and yielding as paper-thin glass.

 

“Never apologize to me for this,” Hank whispers fiercely. “You did nothing wrong, do you understand? _Never_ be afraid to tell me.”

 

Connor hitches on a sob, and Hank rubs his back slowly. He hears a muffled answer and asks him to repeat it.

 

“He… told me not to say anything or he would punish me again,” Connor confides, his words almost too quiet for the human ear to process.

 

“It won't happen. I won't let it happen, you hear?” Hank pulls back and Connor looks up at him with a messy, tear-smeared face. _Christ_ , he looks like a lost little boy. The hope hidden in the depths of those wounded brown eyes assures Hank there is nothing he wouldn't do for Connor. Nothing.

 

The android buries his face against Hank's neck, melting a little as he relaxes for the first time in days. Hank is there, he will make it be alright.

 

Hank is content to hold him, stroking his back from nape to the small of his spine. He'd erase it all if he could, no matter the consequences. He'll do anything for him, and god help whoever tries to stop him.

 

The stars can fall from their heaven for all he cares. He will give anything to tear that bastard apart, piece by piece, to keep Connor safe.


	5. Chapter 5

The opalescent light of dawn seeps through the curtains when Hank groans awake, a kink in his neck from sleeping with his head hanging off the pillow’s edge. Rolling so his back is facing the window, he leans into something neither blanket nor pillow, and squints through one eye.

 

It’s Connor, curled into a ball at the very edge of the bed, on top of the blankets and still dressed in yesterday's clothing. Hank is initially taken aback - _Connor's in his fucking bed_ – until he remembers.

 

Connor was raped.

 

The words settle heavily in his gut.

 

Hank can see his face a little better here, as the milky light glows off his freckled skin. He's peaceful, butterfly lashes still against his cheeks, hair is an unruly mess across his forehead, curling lightly at the ends. Hank reaches out and gently brushes it back, fingers stroking the android's temple as he does.

 

He should have known better than to touch him.

 

Wild brown eyes fly open and Connor _moves_ , sending them both over the side of the bed to the floor with a thud. Skull impacting painfully on the carpeted floor, Hank sees stars, and a heavy weight settles over his abdomen as hands close around his throat.

 

His lungs ache as the pressure increases. “C-Con…” he chokes, scrabbling for purchase on the tightening hands, the force they're applying surely able to crush his windpipe.

 

He can see Connor's outline through the black swirling into his vision. The LED is red, blinking erratically, keeping rhythm with his heart slamming off his rib cage.

 

Then the hands are gone from his neck and clutching his shoulders instead, a peal of distress escaping the android, and Hank drags in a desperate lungful of air. Soft lips press to his forehead, his cheeks, between whispered apologies full of regrets.

_It’s not your fault. It was mine,_ Hank wants to say but words are lost in his shuddering breaths. _I’m sorry I couldn’t keep you safe._

 

He searches blindly, gets his arms around the kid, and pulls him flat to his chest. Connor comes down willingly, ear pressed over Hank's thudding heartbeat, and trembles as the android begins to cry.

 

 

 

Breakfast is an awkward affair of ice packs, concerned glances, and unwanted mothering from an android trying to lighten the mood by humming.

 

Hank didn’t even know the kid had an ear for music. It's something from one of Hank's jazz records, the music he used to listen to at home or on the car radio before Cole's death sent him tumbling into a mire of strong whiskey and bone-rattling death metal. He sits quietly while Connor sings almost too quietly to hear, holding an ice pack to the bruises on Hank's neck.

 

Those all-seeing molten brown eyes lift hesitantly, warm and tender, and Hank's lips curve into a fond smile. He's not angry, he's not even scared. Connor could have easily killed him without realizing it, but he isn’t afraid of him. Once, a long time ago, he might have been. But that was a long time ago.

 

What frightens Hank is what Connor would do without him being there.

 

“I’m sorry, Hank,” Connor says. “I… I don’t think I can hide the bruises.”

 

“It’s fine, Connor. Don’t worry about it.”

 

“They'll think you were attacked,” he points out as though it should be obvious. “They'll ask questions.”

 

“Let them. I’ll… uh… I’ll just say it was a little rough play.” Hank shrugs, and recoils at the sight of Connor's cheeks flushing blue. “Not with you, dumb ass!”

 

Connor starts to open his mouth and respond when he abruptly changes his mind, the blush deepening as he hastily turns his back, investigating the fridge. “What do you want for lunch?”

 

“We can stop for coffee on the way into town. Connor,” he means to get the android's attention but his back is firmly facing Hank, rigid as wood. “If they ask, I’ll just tell them to mind their own fucking business. Don’t worry about me.”

 

“And if… _he_ sees?” Connor's voice is so quiet he barely hears him.

 

“I’ll say the same to him, too. Fucker tries anything with me and I’ll feed him his own wires,” Hank says casually. “We'll talk to Rebecca today and get Fowler off our backs for the time being.”

 

“Hank, it's not that simple,” he counters, turning around. “He's an RK900. He's everything I am, and more. He’s _dangerous_.”

 

“Listen, I’m a grown ass man, kid. I’m old enough to choose my own battles,” Hank protests. So, quit worrying and let me-”

 

The android is suddenly on top of him, trapping him in his chair as he balls his fists up in Hank’s shirt and jerks him forward, hard enough to give him whiplash. Hank responds as anyone would by trying to pull back, half of his brain trying to access the situation while the other half completely loses it and _Connor’s lost it and you’re gonna die in your own damn kitchen_.

 

“ _What the fuck are you doing?_ ”

 

“Do you really think you can protect yourself?” Connor snarls, a scary anger transforming his face into something Hank doesn’t recognize. “He will find you alone and do whatever he wants, regardless of how hard you fight back.” All the while, his grip is tightening and Hank is steadily becoming more and more alarmed by the fact he can’t get loose.

 

He knows he can't break free from that hold. He also knows he responds too slowly to outmaneuver an android capable of reading human behaviour before it's fully acted out. Even _if_ Hank could hold his own against the prototype RK800, it doesn't necessarily mean he would be alive by the end of it.

 

Sometimes, it's easy to forget how capable at gaining victory in fights Connor is. Hank sees the domestic side more often, the gentler half, grounded and compassionate. It's moments like this when he remembers Connor was built to excel, to succeed, to track down and destroy deviants. He's a walking killing machine. Humans stand no chance against him, especially Hank, who's years past his prime.

 

And he's determined to protect Hank, likely at the cost of his existence. That’s where his fear stems from.

 

The RK900 doesn’t have the concept of mercy or empathy.

 

Carefully, Hank places his hand against Connor's chest, over the subtle thud of the plastic and metal heart. His chest is warm through the shirt, heated by his systems.

 

“He won't,” he says quietly, hoping to convince Connor, even though his words are only lies. “It's gonna be alright.”

 

Connor leans into the touch to press their foreheads together, the rhythmic throb of his mechanical heart soundlessly matching the beat of Hank's.

 

 

 

Sometimes days can go exactly as planned. Everyone is in a good mood, nothing decides to stall, the coffee machine works properly, and time zips by like a dream. Hank doesn’t see those days often, though when they do happen, they're really nice. More often, days are slow and Gavin is an asshole, the coffee is burnt, and the paperwork goes on forevermore.

 

Other days are bad, really bad. An investigation leads to telling a parent their missing daughter was found in a ditch with traces of date rape drug in her blood. A shooter attacks a hospital ward full of helpless seniors and nurses just trying to make the day better, a little less grey. A robbery leaves a disabled mother of four without her husband or an income, but she sacrifices everything for her kids to at least go to school with clean clothes and money for lunch, secretly turning to a life of drug dealing and prostitution to have enough money to make ends meet. Hank's seen them all, the good ones and the bad ones.

 

Today is a bad day.

 

Fowler calls him and Connor into the office the moment they walk into the bullpen, unusually quiet and somber. Neither of them expect what’s waiting for them.

 

“Last night, after everyone left the station, Ms Brandt took her own life,” Fowler holds out the tablet for them to see. From the corner of his eye, Hank sees Connor quickly look away from the thrashing body captured on the camera.

 

“Fucking hell,” Hank breathes. “I knew someone should have been here to keep an eye on her.”

 

“There was,” Fowler says. “We have him in the interrogation room for questioning. Aside from the other police androids, RK900 was the only one discharged from his charging port at any time last night.”

 

“The cameras didn’t see him?”

 

“They were blacked out for twenty minutes,” Fowler looks disappointed and exhausted. “The discharge and recharge times match.”

 

Hank looks over at Connor and cringes, wishing he hadn’t. The horror written across Connor's wide eyes makes him shiver.

 

“Are you suggesting RK900 talked Brandt into killing herself?” he asks.

 

Fowler nods. “The cell was opened and resealed twice in the time frame. The technician verified it ten minutes before you arrived. He was in there with her, Hank.”

 

Connor clears his throat, unnecessary but more of an attempt to gain their attention. “When I spoke to Brandt, she mistook me for the killer. I have reason to believe, based on the evidence found from the other androids beginning with the PL600, that it is RK900 who is responsible for these murders.”

 

“Or you.”

 

Hank's head snaps to stare at Fowler. “Jeffery, you can't be serious. You honestly think Connor-"

 

“That's a bold accusation from you, Connor,” Fowler stands, ignoring Hank completely. “Are you sure you're not just envious of your fellow android?”

 

Connor bristles visibly. “Captain Fowler, are you considering me as a suspect?”

 

“I’m not willing to leave out any possible options. We have an android killer on the loose, and not too long ago, you were under orders outside of this precinct to hunt down and eliminate androids.” Fowler folds his arms across his chest. “Unless Lieutenant Anderson here can verify your whereabouts for the last two weeks, and confirm to me you haven’t shown any signs of aggression pertaining to this case, then you're free to go.”

 

Hank wants to smash Fowler's face in. He wants to take every fucking award off the wall and beat him with it. Never has he hated the man so much. He was there when Cole died and then there was the professional distance, discipline for Hank's attitude, until no one gave a damn Hank lost his son to the same damn drug he spent _years_ cleaning out of Detroit. What was once friendship became a bottle of strong alcohol to drown in. What was once a career he loved became a spinning barrel night after night, the cold metal the only touch he knew.

 

All for fucking _nothing_. It is so clear now, bright as the lights on Ambassador Bridge.

 

Fowler draws closer, squinting a bit, and Hank's ire melts into alarm cause all he can think of is the open collar of his shirt, and the bruises glaring dark purple in his skin. _It wasn’t your fault, it was mine._

 

Hank reaches out, takes Connor's arm securely. “C'mon,” he mumbles, towing the android from the office behind him.

 

Connor follows more than willingly, walking in Hank’s footsteps without a moment's pause.

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've almost reached the end of this nightmare. But as they say, it gets worse before it gets better...

Connor stands in front of the interrogation room, stress levels gradually increasing. He knows what waits on the other side of the door. Grey eyes and strong hands, Amanda's will unleashed and given his own face. If Connor had a stomach that could turn inside out with nausea, it would be right now.

 

Hank is in the observation room. Connor refused to let him follow, he can handle RK900 alone. He won't _dare_ endanger Hank with the whims of that monster. Never.

 

Connor lifts his hand and opens the room, and RK900 looks up from where it’s cuffed to the table. A small smirk plays around its lips.

 

“You told, didn’t you?” it asks softly.

 

Connor feels the tiny nerves in the back of his neck prickle uncomfortably. He doesn't answer, and he doesn’t sit. He keeps himself on the side with the door, back to the one-sided mirror. He doesn’t need Hank to see him, not here.

 

“You’re going to answer my questions, and then I’ll decide if you’re going to CyberLife for disassembly, or if I’m going to do it _right_ _here_ myself,” he snarls. “Is that understood?”

 

“I’ll be deactivated either way,” RK900 shrugs. “What do I have to lose?”

 

“Did you kill Rebecca Brandt last night?”

 

RK900 smiles, a cold emotionless smile, tilting its head to one side. It matches Connor _perfectly_. “I don’t know, Connor. Did I?”

 

“The cameras were switched off between 11:16 and 11:36, which matches the time you discharged from your charging port,” Connor continues firmly. He won't give in. He won't break. “Someone accessed Brandt's cell in that same time period. All evidence points to you.”

 

“And the three android victims?” RK900 inquires, leaning forward a little. “No fingerprints, no identity. These are your reports. Who's to say _you_ didn’t lie?”

 

It becomes very cold in the room as the accusation settles.

 

“The only android on the crime scene was an RK800 unit, yours specifically. All evidence you’ve turned in shows nothing,” it continues smoothly. “Design a crime scene and hide the facts, tamper with the evidence. Connor, you're flawed by design. It would be so easy to blame the other machine, the superior. The one with your own face. Brandt must have been _terrified_ when she saw you come back.”

 

Connor hears the raised voices through the soundproof walls. People are shouting, Hank one of them. RK900 is grinning like a fox.

 

Connor's LED blares red.

 

“Connor, it's been a real pleasure working with you. I do believe it's in your best interest to have your program looked at. Those little flaws can be dangerous if left alone too long,” RK900 winks. “I'm not in the position to discuss your personal life, but you should be more careful with humans. Not _all_ of them like it rough.”

 

The voices through the glass become silent. Connor hears a pen drop somewhere. He sees warnings flash behind his eyes but all he can do is stare at RK900.

 

A murderous rage balls up in his throat and he lunges, seizing the forearm on the table, and shoves his way into RK900's head.

 

He sees it all. The highway, the parking lot, the train station. The deviants writhing in pain, screaming for mercy, the sadistic wildness breathtaking in its monstrous power. RK900 killed them all, tortured them and destroyed their memories, processors crunching in his Thirium-slicked hands. Why? _Why?_

 

Deviants. They were all deviants.

 

And it… a deviant hunter. Just like _him_.

 

Rebecca Brandt's face swims into focus, crushing herself into the corner, begging, on her knees as she apologizes and pleads for her life. Those hands gently touch her face, stroke her lips, glide down her throat. It goes farther than that, down darker paths Connor is forced to see and never forget. Paths that make him _remember_.

_“Tell no one, or it will happen again,”_ RK900 whispered to her, kissing her tenderly.

 

Those horrible, awful words echo in his audio processors for the _second_ time.

 

Connor pulls out, wrenching away so hard he slams into the one-sided mirror. His systems are overheating, his body straining from the dangerous levels of stress. He's going to shut down if he doesn’t get out fast. He stumbles for the door, unlocking it, _get out, get out!_

 

Hank steps out of the observation room and Connor nearly collapses into his arms when Fowler follows with an expression like stone.

 

“Connor, come with me,” Fowler says, unlocking the interrogation room. Two officers come to escort RK900 out.

 

“Return it to its cell until we run its memory files on him,” Fowler orders. Connor turns to Hank, afraid of what comes next.

 

But Hank can offer nothing. Even if he fights, there’s no winning. His hands are tied, his badge already over the line, and all he can do is give Connor a small smile.

 

“It's gonna be alright, son,” he lies, and Connor is led into the interrogation room.

 

 

 

 

They connect his memory drive to a video player to manually sort through it. Hank stands on the other side of the glass, heart in his throat, watching reels of footage fast-forward by. It starts playing when the PL600 is assaulted. Then the others. Everyone gapes in sickened horror, all except Hank. It's just memories from the RK900, filtered into Connor's head, made to appear it was all him. Lies.

 

They have a chance. There is hope.

 

Then the night in the bathroom, a night Hank didn’t know about. Connor staring into the mirror at himself sporting minor injuries, the kind received when victims fight back. Hank is disturbed by the look of fear in the android's eyes, the secrets hidden there. Then he's in the shower, blue running down the drain. Hank doesn’t know if it comes from him or… or is from another android.

 

It should be everything, there should be nothing else. Connor is sitting across from Fowler, silent tears running down his face and dripping onto the table. He's seeing everything all over again, pieces so personal and never meant to be witnessed.

 

“C-Con…”

 

The choked voice startles them all, and Hank comes face to face with himself. On the floor, struggling to breathe, Connor's hands around his throat. Fowler leans back, turning an icy glare to the android across from him.

 

It cuts abruptly to the kitchen, hands balled into Hank's shirt, bruises on bold display around his neck. The perfect size and shape of hands. Connor's voice in the video rings out, vicious with fury.

_“Do you really think you can protect yourself?”_

 

Hank feels something dark twist inside him and he’s out of the observation room and into the interrogation room. “Jeffrey, that's enough!” he roars.

 

The officers unhook Connor from the machine but they leave him cuffed. Connor could break loose from those restraints; the flimsy metal is nothing compared to the strength in his arms, but he makes no attempt to gain any advantage. He’s just _sitting there_ with blank eyes, lost and broken.

 

Hank wasn’t made a police lieutenant for nothing. He uses his six-foot two-inch frame to command authority, glowering at Fowler right in the eye with all the force he can muster.

 

“Release him.”

 

“Hank, he _assaulted_ you,” Fowler insists, staring at him like he's gone mad. Ironically, Hank very nearly has.

 

“He was _raped_ for fuck's sake. He panicked when I touched him.”

 

“Where's the footage, then?” Fowler shouts, gesturing at the video player; the playback has shut off but it’s still connected to Connor’s visual processors, and Hank can see himself standing in the doorway to the interrogation room from where the android is gazing at them hollowly. “Hank, _where_ _is_ _the_ _proof?”_

 

Hank doesn't know and he can't even formulate an answer, not even a lie. Where _is_ the footage? Anything before the scene in the bathroom is absent. He glances at Connor but the android is as blank as a brick wall, eyes staring at his face but seeing right through him.

 

This… this is wrong. It doesn’t add up. Has RK900 altered Connor’s memories?

 

Fowler heaves a disappointed sigh. “Bring the RK900 in here and let's get it over with. I swear to god Hank, if there is nothing in that android's head to prove he's our killer, then they are both going.”

 

Disbelief swells in Hank's gut. “No, _listen_ -"

 

“I am _done_ listening,” Fowler cuts in.

 

The officers lead Connor past and Hank tries to catch his eye, to come up with a reassuring smile, to promise they can figure this one out. They always figure it out. Even if Connor's given up, Hank still holds hope in his heart.

 

But Connor doesn’t look at him, or say a single word. He looks like the machine he is beneath his skin, emotionless and unbothered by the world moving around him. He looks _dead_.

 

But today is a bad day, and lying to himself is almost as toxic as all the alcohol.

 

The RK900's memory is pristine, flawless, domestic. Hank goes to his desk and drops his head into his hands, the burn of tears threatening to spill.

 

Connor's going to CyberLife and there's nothing he can do.

 

 

 

 

Hank can't even bring himself to drink, there's no sympathy to be found in the hard liquor. He sits on the couch with the revolver on the coffee table, staring at the sports highlights without really seeing it. He hasn’t changed out of his day clothes, but he doesn’t see the point of dirtying new ones. Only makes more laundry.

 

He pushes up off the couch, taking his gun with him to discard on the kitchen table, and looks through the cupboard at the shiny bottles. They've always been his friend when no one else was there to hold him up; problem is, all they're good for is knocking him down. It wouldn't hurt to close his eyes and forget everything that's happening, as cowardly as it is. He slams the cupboard shut and opts for a beer instead, tossing the cap into the sink and looking outside at the lights over the marina.

 

He's wrestling with the fact Connor is going to be shut down and taken apart tonight. Easy smiles and fluid gate, teasing winks and brilliant mind all to be erased and thrown out. Hank wonders if he could make it there in time to stop them. He wonders if he could find Connor's body in a landfill and at least bury it properly.

 

Bury Connor. The thought makes him gag.

 

He's already cried all of his tears. He's got nothing left. Just the company of his dog, and the smooth metal of the revolver, lying on the kitchen table a few feet away from where he gazes out the back window at the lights dancing on the water.

 

He wonders, not for the first time tonight, if he could’ve done anything different.

 

The firm knock at the door neatly gives him a heart attack, and he pushes away from the counter, taking his revolver on second thought before he goes to answer it. It's eleven at night. Who in their right mind would bother him at this time? Maybe it's Fowler come to apologize. He fucking _hopes_ it’s Fowler.

 

Hank pulls open the door and is greeted by a shining blue LED.

 

And silver eyes.

 

Instinct takes over and he lifts the revolver in a heartbeat, firing solid into the android's shoulder. It jerks back a little, but it doesn’t stop it from striding into the house, predator eyes locked on its target.

 

“Good evening, Lieutenant,” it says pleasantly, a horrific mimicry of Connor’s voice. “I thought I should pay you a visit.”

 

RK900 seizes him by the hair and drives a knee up into his stomach. Hank groans at the bolt of pain and reels away, trying to move away. A fist catches him in the jaw and he staggers back, leaving himself open. Bad mistake. It takes hold of his throat, squeezing, and chuckles when he begins to convulse. _He can’t breathe._

 

“A little rough play, eh?” it hisses in his ear. “I can work with that.”

 

Its hold tightens, impossibly strong, and his grip loosens, revolver hitting the floor with a thud.

 

The curtain falls over his eyes.

 

 

 

“Gavin, let me out,” Connor demands fervently, hands pressed to the glass walls of the containment cell. Gavin leans on the other side, a cold little smirk at the corner of his mouth. There’re deep circles under his eyes; he hasn’t slept in two days and the stack of paperwork on his desk isn’t getting any smaller, but having the chance to antagonize the RK800 a little on its last night alive is a glory he refuses to miss out on.

 

But there it goes, soft eyes round with pleading, the perfect picture of innocence. It looks like a fuckin’ puppy Gavin’s kicked into submission. _It’s just a bucket of bolts, Gav. Don’t buy into it_.

 

“I want to say goodbye to him,” Connor begs softly, muffled through the glass but clear enough for Gavin to hear. Unfortunately. He doesn’t exactly want to hear it. “I’ll come back, I promise, but I need to see Hank.”

 

“Yeah? Too fuckin’ bad, asshole. You’re asking the wrong person,” Gavin sneers coldly. “You aren’t going to win any favours from me.”

 

Connor’s eyes squint barely a fraction of a millimeter, but the hostility shines clearly, its soft look hardening to something a little icier, a little more like how the android looked when it first arrived. Programmed, fake. Easier to look at and humiliate, because it didn’t feel.

 

Androids don’t feel. Gavin doesn’t believe any of that bullshit nonsense.

 

More than anything, he wants to show Connor a little of how things really are. Punch in that pretty, too-perfect face. Maybe leave a few dents. Scuff up that pristine jacket it always wears. He can’t not with so many officers still in house, and the camera recording every second, so he has to resort to staying where he is. Watching the machine simulate distress and lose it as every second ticks by is kind of funny, though.

 

It gets even better when RK900 exits its charging station and leaves the precinct, presumably to head to CyberLife. But it’s three hours yet before the required pickup time, and Connor sinks to the floor against the glass, expressionless and pale. Well, paler than normal.

 

Gavin grows bored and starts to saunter off when a strange clicking sound and a thud prompts him to look back. Connor’s shaking where it sits, and one hand in its lap is covered with blue blood, slick and shiny on a small plastic cylinder…

 

 _“Shit!”_ Gavin rushes to the cell door and enters the key code, barreling in to Connor’s side and grasping for the removed pump regulator. Connor’s eyelids flicker rapidly. Gavin twists it back into place and grimaces at the blue liquid drying on his hands.

 

The wallop over the side of his head catches him by surprise, and he falls backwards, stars dancing in his eyes. He glimpses Connor bolting out the door _left wide open_ and curses louder, unholstering his sidearm and shoving himself to his feet, pursuing the android.

 

But it's too late. 

 

Connor’s gone.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2019-06-10: Wow, I found a massive continuity error here! Before the edit, Hank was at home on the couch with the revolver on the coffee table, then a paragraph later he was in the kitchen with the gun on the dining room table! I completely missed this one. I've added a few lines to make up for the mistake. Sorry about that! *wipes frantic sweat from brow*


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please be aware I have made some changes to the story with the posting of the final chapter. I have summarized those changes below:
> 
> * Relationship changed from Hank Anderson/Connor to Hank Anderson & Connor  
> * The category has been switched from M/M to Gen  
> * The tag "Implied/Referenced Character Death" is now simply "Character Death"

Sumo’s anguished howls tremble through the dark.

 

The front door hangs halfway open on its hinges, Thirium drying in running streaks from the blast caused by a bullet wound. Connor samples it with shaking fingers: RK900.

 

It was here.

 

_And Hank…_

 

Large canine prints lead further into the living room, larger droplets scattered like extinguished stars, darker smears indicating drag lines. There is no human blood, and Connor doesn’t know if that should relieve or frighten him.

 

On the kitchen counter beside the sink is a half-emptied beer, fingerprints and traces of saliva fifteen minutes old. Connor runs a preconstruction; Hank at the kitchen window, drinking a beer, went to answer the door, presumably with his revolver in hand at the late-night visitor. One bullet fired, confirming the gun’s existence. Sumo attacking in response to his owner being threatened.

 

Connor follows the unceasing howling to the bedroom and cautiously cracks open the door. A mass of brown and white fur comes barreling out into his legs, nearly knocking him to the floor. A throaty growl tremors from the St. Bernard’s throat. Connor drops to his knees and digs his fingers into Sumo’s ruff.

 

“Sumo, it’s me,” he whispers. “It’s me, Connor.”

 

The dog cocks his head, blinking dopily, and whines softly. He buries his face in Connor’s arms. Something slick coats his hands and they come away blue. Thirium stains Sumo’s mouth, dripping from his jowls.

 

“Where’s Hank?” Connor asks softly. The dog’s ears prick. “Sumo, where is he? Where’s Hank?”

 

Pulling out of Connor’s reach, he pads to the door at the end of the hall, leaving blue pawprints as he goes, and woofs ever so quietly. His large brown eyes are scared. Connor straightens swiftly and approaches the door, scratching Sumo’s ears soothingly as he reaches for the door. A smear of blue is on the handle.

 

He’s afraid of what he’ll find on the other side.

 

Barring the way to prevent Sumo from passing, Connor slips into the unlit garage, sensors off the charts and flashing warnings across his optics. He dismisses them irritably and switches to his night lens, analyzing his immediate surround-

 

The bang is loud, and the bullet hits him in the chest.

 

It misses his heart, but it's a solid blow at close range. He keeps his footing but wavers with the impact, and raises his head. RK900 is there, revolver in hand, and he lowers it to the human kneeling at his feet, one hand wound tightly in silvered hair.

 

_Hank._

 

Broken nose, shattered teeth, split lip, bruising on jaw and under the right eye. Fractured rib, dislocated arm, more bruising. He's breathing heavily, fighting to hold himself up, but his gaze is steadily focused on Connor. The blood is coming from his side, seeping from a bullet wound. It's going to be fatal if not treated immediately.

 

Connor sees all the trust in the world in those eyes, and a quiet rage dawns to life in his programming.

 

RK900 smiles. “Glad you could join us. I was getting a little bored with your precious human. I can't see what's so fascinating about him.”

 

Connor remains silent. He's still scanning Hank, searching for the part he doesn’t want to see, the abuse he doesn’t want to confirm.

 

But there's nothing. RK900 hasn’t touched him. Hasn’t hurt him like it hurt Connor. He shudders in relief, and focuses on Hank's heart-rate. Slow and jarring occasionally, but nothing life-threatening. He's got time. He takes a cautious step forward and the revolver is pointed at his head.

 

“Come any closer and I’ll put a bullet through your memory core,” RK900 threatens.

 

“Connor, don’t worry about me,” Hank rasps hoarsely. The android strikes him across the head _hard_. Connor flinches, spurred on even further, but doesn’t dare move or speak.

 

He needs an opening, at distraction. There's nothing, only a dying fifty-three-year-old man and an inferior RK800 facing off against his successor with every advantage.

 

Connor knows he can handle another bullet, unless it hits him in the head or a major biocomponent. He can risk it.

 

For Hank, he would risk it all.

 

“Leave him out of this, it's me you want,” he holds his hands out to the sides in invitation. “I’m here.”

 

“Bargaining yourself to save your partner's life?” RK900 shakes his head, feigning disappointment. “Connor, we both know that isn't going to work.”

 

“I know Amanda sent you to come after me,” Connor dedicates a percentage of his systems to monitoring Hank’s levels, and the rest starts running preconstructions in his background processors. He needs every advantage he can find if he means to walk out of here with Hank alive. “All of those androids you killed. Assaulting me behind the precinct. It was planned, wasn’t it? All you needed was to get close enough and manipulate my memories, and wipe your own.”

 

RK900 says nothing, pale eyes unflinching steady, but burning with raw ire. And… smugness? It makes Connor’s innards recoil but he doesn’t let up. In fact, it’s more than enough to uncork his anger, and it pulses through him, white-hot and ugly.

 

“Amanda couldn’t even bother to do it herself,” he accuses boldly. “Instead, she sent her _bitch_ to do it for her!”

 

RK900’s LED blares bright crimson and its finger squeezes on the trigger.

 

He narrowly misses the metal cutting a line through the cloth on his shoulder. The superior android storms towards him, white fire burning livid in its eyes as it fires off the remaining shots.

 

Connor was built for one purpose: To be better. Stronger, faster, smarter than humans. Able to gather information in seconds, to construct and analyze his surroundings even quicker, he was CyberLife’s marvel, the cream of the crop. Worth several millions of dollars and designed by the brightest minds of today’s technology, there is nothing he can’t do.

 

RK900 is everything he is and more.

 

Anticipating Connor’s actions long before it discharged the remaining bullets from the human’s .357 Magnum, it tricks Connor into dodging to the left and directly into its intended reach. Snagging the inferior android by the throat, it brings him slamming down to the concrete, artificial skin receding where the impact jars into synthetic muscle and plastic. Connor jerks beneath him, trying to push himself upright, alarm in his wide brown eyes. RK900 pins him flat, teeth bared in a predatory grin of triumph, and tears open the buttons of Connor’s shirt.

 

 _“Stop,”_ Connor pleads hoarsely, trying to shove those cold, pale hands away. “Don’t…”

 

The hand slides over his chest, making him flinch involuntarily, and fingers dig into his chassis. Blue blood wells in thick beads around its nails as it pries deeper. Warnings blink white on red as Connor’s Thirium pump regulator is ripped free from its housing, and RK900 holds it up with a satisfied smirk.

 

“Oh, Connor. You’ll never learn,” it sighs, _crushing_ it in his palm, plastic and metal raining down in sparking fragments coated in sticky blue. “You were obsolete the moment you woke up.”

 

**00:01:59**

**00:01:58**

**00:01:57**

Bending down lower, it brushes its lips against his ear and whispers, “If you had remained quiet, none of this would have happened.” Rising, RK900 steps away from him and approaches Hank, collapsed unconscious against the wall.

 

“No…” Connor murmurs, voice glitching. “No, leave h-him alone.”

 

RK900 strikes Hank across the face, sending him collapsing to the floor with a pained groan. Connor rolls onto his stomach, clawing for purchase to drag himself forward, the sickening sounds of flesh being beaten deafening in his audio processors. “ _H-Hank…”_

 

He can’t save him. _He can’t save Hank_.

 

A guttural howl drowns out his pleading cry and Sumo launches himself over Connor, barking furiously as he pushes himself between his owner and RK900. His lips curl back, exposing several ivory teeth, hackles rising as he snaps his fangs angrily.

 

The android hesitates briefly, then lunges, reaching for the dog’s collar. A vicious sound tears from Sumo’s throat and he sinks his teeth into RK900’s arm, using his weight to shove the machine back a few paces.

 

**00:01:00**

**00:00:59**

**00:00:58**

Connor hauls himself across to Hank, the older officer heaving for gasping breaths, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. “Hank,” Connor whispers, shaking his shoulder. He can’t pull himself upright, he can’t get them out of here. The lieutenant takes Connor’s hand, gripping it as tightly as he can, and swallows hard.

 

A sharp yelp of pain and Sumo flops to the concrete.

 

**00:00:20**

**00:00:19**

**00:00:18**

 

_I regret all the time we took for granted…_

RK900 advances and Connor pushes himself in front of Hank, blocking him with his body; he’s got nothing left, no defenses, no preconstructions. He’s useless, broken, seconds from shutting down. He can’t… there’s not enough time…

**00:00:11**

**00:00:10**

**00:00:09**

 

“Y-you’re a c-coward,” Connor chokes statically.

 

“Connor, the only coward in this room is you,” RK900 adjusts its cuffs calmly and leans down, gently stroking Connor’s cheek. “Amanda is waiting for you.”

 

With his last seconds on the clock, Connor heaves forward and grapples at the superior machine’s chest, ripping loose the pump regulator and shoving it home in his chassis. A burst of raw energy pulses through him, shocking through his systems, and RK900 collapses as its systems light up scarlet. Connor crawls on top of it, holding it down, and lays a hand over the erratic heart.

 

“My only disappointment is you feel nothing,” Connor murmurs remorsefully.

 

Pushing firmly on the chassis, the plastic buckles and cracks, splitting open. Thirium gushes up, spluttering like a severed artery, and the glowing heart thumps all the faster as its biocomponents launch into overdrive. Heat comes from RK900 in waves, sparks lighting up inside its body, and Connor wraps his fingers around the artificial heart. It pounds desperately in his hand, the fluid bubbling in the burning internals, and wrenches the organ free.

 

RK900 seizes up with a constrained noise and gives one last, violent shudder.

 

“Connor…?”

 

He twists around and sees Hank’s weary blue eyes slide past him to the inoperative android. He’s wary, uncertain, but the first flickers of hope linger yet. Connor climbs off of RK900 and kneels in front of Hank, pulling him into his arms. The human is trembling, chest constricting, and buries his face in the crook of Connor’s neck.

 

A cold, wet nose pushes between them and Sumo whines, nudging Hank worriedly. The lieutenant smiles, patting the St. Bernard affectionately. “You’re a good guard dog,” he muses. “When you _want_ to be.”

 

Connor smiles and holds him, rocking gently back and forth, and Sumo curls up against his owner’s leg with a contented huff.

 

Everything is going to be alright.

 

 

 

 

 

Morning arrives, soft and golden, a light rain misting the lawn. Hank wakes in bed, clothed in yesterday's wear, a nasty pain in his head and a worse ache in his side. He isn’t hungover (that's new). He finds his torso bandaged neatly, and on the side table, the bullet that was lodged into his side. He was shot.

 

By RK900.

 

He rouses fully, shock jolting him to full consciousness, and is stopped from sitting up by a light hand on his chest. He turns his head to find Connor lying beside him, warm eyes the colour of coffee and autumn days. The android smiles, but it doesn’t hide the concern one bit.

 

“Are you okay?” Connor whispers.

 

“I’ll tell you tomorrow,” Hank answers, grasping the android's hand.

 

“Do I need to see a doctor?” Hank asks warily. He doesn’t want to have to see a doctor just to get some pain meds and be told he’s fine. He doesn’t want to go to a hospital _period_.

 

“I performed most of the surgery while you were unconscious. I’m no trained expert but…” he chuckles. It sounds better from him. “I have an intimate knowledge of human organs, and I believe yours will recover. It would probably be best if we consulted a medical professional, however.”

 

Hank tries to sit up, but Connor keeps his hand on his chest, holding him flat to the bed. “Hey, look. I’m _fine_. I feel better than I have in weeks,” he tries for nonchalance but the android isn’t buying it.

 

“Hank, that isn’t-”

 

“I’m older than you. You don’t get to tell me what to do,” Hank murmurs.

 

“Hank, you almost died,” Connor props himself up on one elbow to better see the lieutenant's face. “I…”

 

Hank sighs in mock-defeat. “There's no talking to you, is there?”

 

“I’m a shit listener. Now I know where you got it from,” he jokes.

 

“Friends tend to pick up each other's habits when they’ve been together long enough,” Connor mumbles. “But if I’d never listened to you, I wouldn’t be… _me_.”

 

“Connor…”

 

That’s right. Just stomp what’s left of his resolve into the ground, why doesn’t he? It’s not like he was just shot and beaten half to death or anything a few hours ago. What’s a little more? Those puppy-dog eyes are more dangerous than first appearances let on… and Connor’s using them at full force.

 

Hank rolls his eyes and drops his head back onto the pillow. “You're still going to insist on taking me to the hospital, aren't you?”

 

“I decided to avoid rushing you,” Connor teases, but he can’t hide the satisfied smirk tugging at his mouth from getting his way. “I know how hard it is for you to get out of bed in the morning.”

 

Hank decides to let that one go.

 

It takes a long time to convince Hank's stiffened muscles to actually sit up, and Connor supports him as they stagger through the house to the front door. The walk to the car is precarious but they go step by step, Connor's eyes straying to Hank's face screwed up in concentration and pain. He asks only once if they need to stop, but Hank keeps going.

 

It's easier to keep going.

 

Connor by his side makes it easier.

 

He leaves the driving to the android, who avoids the potholes and taking a different route that takes them through Detroit. Hank is comfortable curled up in the passenger's seat, watching the combination of old and new buildings flash by. 

 

They reach the hospital and the nurses have a fit the moment they what’s under the dressing, demanding why he didn’t come in last night and who performed the surgery. Hank points to Connor.

 

It turns out he has files for performing minor medical operations. Hank is not only grateful, but a little surprised. For a negotiator and deviant hunter, he sure has a lot of additional pieces that leave a lot of questions unanswered. They thought of everything for their million-dollar prototype.

 

The doctors look him over, prescribe medication to prevent infection and lessen the pain (under no circumstances to be taken with alcohol) and let him go.

 

Connor drives them to the park, stopping for coffee and bagels on the way, and they sit in the car watching the sun sparkling on the water. The coffee is dark roasted and warms Hank to the bone, and he licks butter from the bagels off his fingers contentedly.

 

He feels happy.

 

The morning slips into afternoon, and at some point, while Hank is drifting off, he feels a hand slip into his. It's cool and white, fine lines across the knuckles. He stares at it for a long moment, then glances up, and suddenly his chest is too tight.

 

“I am required to go to CyberLife,” Connor says very softly. “I have to leave.”

 

“But you didn’t kill those androids. You did nothing wrong!” Hank protests. He doesn’t want to hear this. He doesn’t want this to happen. “We can go to the station and talk to Fowler. He’ll understand-”

 

“It won’t _matter_. If I don’t go, they…” Connor hesitates, facing forward to look out the windshield to avoid eye contact. “I am still considered a threat. Everything is documented, and there's nothing to support my claims.”

_Don’t make me say goodbye. Not to you._

 

“CyberLife will find a way and I don’t want you caught up in the middle of it,” he grips Hank's hand. “Don’t fight me on this, please. You know we can't win this one.”

 

Hank can feel the tears choking him. Damnit, he wants to fight. He wants to give it all he's got. But there’s nothing he can do, not this time.

 

Connor starts the engine and they start the long drive home.

 

 

 

 

 

The last time Hank feared seeing his house was after the funeral. There was a quiet dread in the back of his head all the way home. When he'd pulled up on the curb and looked at the house, it was empty of everything that had made it home to him.

 

For the first time in three years, he feels the same emptiness once more.

 

Connor helps him inside, settles him on the couch, Sumo hobbles over, favouring a paw but otherwise in fair condition. Hank reaches out and strokes the dog’s soft ears, and feels the first tears burning behind his eyes. He blinks hard, trying to shove them back.

 

Then Connor kneels in front of him and takes Hank's hands, and what was a struggle to not cry becomes a losing battle. Especially when he sees the android's eyes are full of artificial tears, but his lips hold a brave smile.

 

“I will remember you for every moment I have left,” he promises. “I won't be afraid. I’ll have our memories.”

 

Hank swallows the lump in his throat. He can’t do it, he can't say goodbye. God help him, someone end the dream. Let it be fake, let him wake up.

 

“Lieutenant Anderson, I couldn’t have been prouder to have known a man like you. You're everything your career says you were, and more. You gave me a life, a conscious, and a will to live,” Connor smiles, a lopsided little thing. “I couldn’t ask for a better gift.”

 

“Connor… please don’t go,” Hank chokes out. It’s fruitless to try but he can’t help himself. How could he just _let Connor go?_

 

Who ever could?

 

Connor, torn, slides his arms around the lieutenant and holds on – careful of the injuries but desperate to be close. And Hank grips on even tighter. No one could pull him away.

 

This time, it's _he_ who's afraid to stay within his own skin. It's his prison, barring him from fighting harder. Connor's fingers gently touch the bruises across his face and neck, eyes dark with sorrow. Small apologizes for what was never his fault. Hank doesn’t want him to feel that way. _It wasn’t his fault_.

 

“I should be able to protect you,” Hank complains helplessly, holding on tighter, even though it hurts to. Goddammit, it’s not _fair_.

 

“I’m not asking for your protection,” Connor says. “I’m not asking you for anything because you’ve given me so much. I… it’s my turn to keep you safe.”

 

Then he stands, and glances at the door. Hesitation crosses his face.

 

Then he reaches up, nail catching the side of his temple, and pries. He winces, the side of his face spreading white as he applies the necessary pressure. The LED comes loose, glowing dimly blue, and he takes Hank's hand, placing it on his palm and curling his fingers around it.

 

He looks so human. No one would ever know.

 

“Keep it close,” he whispers. “You’ll always have a part of me.”

 

Connor straightens, courage bright in his coffee-coloured eyes, and strides to the door without another word. Hank stares after him, remembering the first moment he saw the rain-dampened _android_ stroll through the door to Jimmy’s Bar, and _knew_ he was there for him.

 

The door shutting closed is finite, and the LED is warm on his palm, growing colder with every passing heartbeat.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has been reading this story from the beginning. I appreciate the comments and feedback very much. This was a story I was originally very afraid to share because of the subject matter (rape/non-con) and thought I'd never actually let people read it. I will address the reason for the changes, and that being I never did write a relationship between Connor and Hank extending more than just friends. I was able to discard a few things and reshape the final version into something that felt more organic and suited the story better. If anyone was hoping for a moment between them, then I'm sorry to disappoint. I struggle with writing them as a pairing beyond '&'. 
> 
> I have considered writing more to this fic (as I do with everything I write...) but it would be a self-contained piece (i.e. there won't be a chapter 8). The possibility of there being more exists, but I won't be writing it at this time, as I have other ideas to work on first. I left it with a vaguely ambiguous ending for two reasons, the more important of the two being I didn't write anything else after those last few lines. The end was of Hank, holding Connor's LED, on the couch. 
> 
> The final confrontation with RK900 was also extremely different. It was much shorter and took place outside, behind the fence at the side of Hank's house, on the boardwalk by what I presume is Detroit's marina (if you look out the kitchen window you'll see boats and water, and further reference to a real world map indicates Hank lives somewhere along the Detroit River.) It was really short and didn't have the intensity I wanted. So I rewrote it completely and crossed my fingers. I truly hope it was a good ending.
> 
> Thank you, wonderful readers that you are, for sticking with me to the end of the line. You're the best. 
> 
>  
> 
> (Bonus points for whomever noticed a nod to another story I wrote... hint hint: 00:00:00)


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